


Redacted

by orphan_account



Series: Myc & Me: a correspondence [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Molly understands feelings, Mycroft has Feelings, Mycroft's take on the whole thing, this is a sequel idk if it makes sense as a standalone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 10:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mycroft tries to write Molly a letter. It takes three years. Other people get very judgy.(this is a sequel)





	Redacted

 

 

  


**Part 0: Mycroft**

 

Mycroft Holmes has never been, by any stretch of the word, romantic.

 

But the next three years are about to be a crash course education in interpersonal relationships, of the most intimate kind.

 

Mycroft isn’t one of those people who buries their loneliness under work. No, he had so long ago ceased to put any effort into human relationships that he wouldn’t recognize loneliness if it came up to him and punched him in the face.

 

Being solitary—it’s not stoicism as much as it is a comfort to Mycroft. Solitude is not armor, it is a soft, warm, and fuzzy blanket. Mycroft is very comfortable being alone, because he is very comfortable with himself. It’s more than what a great deal of other people can claim.

 

As a child, part of it was his callous nature. A selfishness of sorts. The other part sounds like narcissism on paper but in practice was much less so: he was more interested in the contents of his own mind than that of others.

 

To be fair, Mycroft had, and still does have, a marvellous mind. He made it neat and tidy and filled it with information from all areas of study, from all corners of the world; its contents were endlessly intriguing, its organization aesthetically pleasing. It was, in essence, an ode to the concept of wonder.

 

I think we can forgive him just a little, then, for getting lost in his own mind, the way an architect might lose themselves in the splendor of a palace they poured their soul into so many years ago.

 

But as with everything, there is room for growth. After all, you can't very well dive into the deep end with a duvet.

 

Mycroft is just now starting to understand how to be comfortable with himself—with other people.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

**Part 1: Anthea**

 

Mycroft and Molly’s first real date (not the dinner where they made up after a spectacular falling out, in the aftermath of Sherlock’s faked suicide) is on a chilly February morning.

 

Anthea makes a note of this, as she has taken it upon herself to be Mycroft’s personal relationship counselor. She crosses her legs, on his sofa, and asks him to continue.

 

Mycroft frowns, and it occurs to him that, seeing as he has committed to trying out this ‘relationship’ thing with Molly because of her influence, wouldn’t it be a sort of betrayal to have someone else advise on his progress? And he says as much.

 

Anthea says no, because there is nothing wrong with seeking out self-improvement on your own with the purpose being, ultimately, to please your partner. Anthea is also doing this for Molly, she adds. For the both of them, really.

 

“I suppose you have a point,” Mycroft muses. And then he continues.

 

✒

 

The first date took place on a chilly February morning; they had had coffee and a stroll through the park (not the one where Molly hit him, because she said maybe it didn’t send the best connotations for a new beginning). It was a very normal date, because Molly wanted to have a normal date.

 

She’d never really dated normally, she said at dinner (the non-date beforehand). She’s had epic, whirlwind romances, and partnerships where they ended up melding into each others’ lives seamlessly—but each of these romances failed the crucial step of Defining the Relationship, Molly explained. And they all went south horribly, was implied by her eyebrow raise, and he vaguely knew as much as well.

 

“That’s why I want to do this properly,” Molly had said.

 

Mycroft was willing to try that, and told her so. The most difficult step, he surmised, was coming to terms with his feelings and admitting to her that he would rather be with her than without. And he had already taken that first, most difficult step, he thought.

 

Mycroft is only about half right.

 

✒

 

Anthea waits expectantly, and when Mycroft doesn’t elaborate she makes another note.

 

“And then?” she asks.

 

“We talked, as people dating tend to do, I’m told,” he replies. Then he adds, “I do prefer to keep most details of the relationship private, I hope you understand.”

 

“I mean,” Anthea presses, “what’s next?”

 

“We’re planning to have lunch next Thursday,” Mycroft replies. He can give her that much. In fact, it is on his calendar. Which Anthea has.

 

She gives him a funny look. “That’s February the 15th.”

 

“Yes it is,” Mycroft says.

 

“And what are you doing on the 14th?” she asks.

 

“I have a meeting with Saudi Arabian royalty, Anthea, really what good are you as a personal assistant if I’m reminding you of appointments rather than the other way around?” Mycroft squints a little at her. Anthea is gaping. Her mouth is doing a funny impression of a fish out of water. It’s quite unlike her.

 

“It’s _Valentine’s Day,_ ” she says, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

 

He folds his hands and thinks for a moment.

 

“Though Molly and I have not yet discussed how we will be handling holidays,” is what he settles on for an answer, “I don’t think it is presumptuous of me to say that, due to the newness of it all, neither of us is expecting some grand gesture from the other just because Hallmark cards suggest we do so.”

 

Anthea stares at him.

 

“This girl has been pining after you for _three years_ ,” she says, slowly, as if she is talking to a small child.

 

Mycroft frowns. Molly is not the pining type, at least, not in a brooding, tortured sort of way. She can feel great affection for something and laugh about it at the same time. For Molly, attention to one thing does not come at the expense of the world around it. They are adults, and they can still function like the professionals the British Empire needs them to be, Valentine’s Day be damned.

 

Somehow, Anthea seems to read this all in his face and rolls her eyes, getting up and leaving the room.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Monday rolls around and Mycroft and Anthea are in the back of a black, standard-issue, bulletproof government vehicle on the way to a Very Important Meeting, as per usual.

 

“You know,” she says too nonchalantly to mean it, while typing away on her BlackBerry,  “love letters are a very heartfelt gesture. Discrete. Private. Sincere. Still very romantic.”

 

He gives her a sardonic glance, and she raises an uncaring eyebrow. Then they go back to their respective phones.

 

The quiet doesn’t last long.

 

“Molly texts you all the time, doesn’t she?” Anthea asks. Molly does, in fact. Molly has just sent him a “good morning!!” with little faces and things next to it.

 

“And she doesn’t expect you to respond with the same volume, that’s true enough. But you could make it up to her in a different form,” Anthea continues.

 

Mycroft is guilted into pulling his messaging app back up to send Molly a reply. He doesn’t let it show.

 

_Me: I hope your day goes well._

 

“You’ve still got that lovely stationery gifted by the Queen,” Anthea muses.

 

_Molly: ??!  you too??_

_Molly:  someone’s in a good mood!!_

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

_Dear Molly,_

 

Mycroft stares at the stationery, with the two words he’d just penned at the top.

 

It doesn’t sound quite right?

 

Dearest Molly?

 

No, maybe that would be too much. He is not generally overly sentimental in his correspondence, and it would be strange of him to start being so now.

 

He pores over the two words for a little while longer, and then his phone display blinks on, with a reminder of another Important Meeting he has to attend in 20 minutes.

 

Anthea, as if on cue, appears in the doorway just as he stands, letting him know a car is ready. She glances at the papers on his desk, then smiles knowingly.

 

He frowns.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

“Anthea wants us to go on a double date,” Molly says between forkfuls of salad at lunch one day. They’re doing this dating thing properly, she explained over the phone two days ago, which means after coffees it’s lunches and then dinners, and so on.

 

He is pleasantly surprised with how smoothly things are progressing. Molly, as much as she had him off-kilter in the early days, is making herself very easy to be around. He endeavors to do the same with her.

 

She has yet to say anything along the lines of “I wish you would _communicate more_ ” or “I just can’t tell what you’re _thinking_ ” or “it’s not _you_ , it’s me.”

 

Instead, she listens to him rattle off trivia related to his current work, like interesting tidbits about the oil market that he would never bring up in a diplomatic meeting out of, well, diplomacy, but still feels is worth sharing. And she’s somehow never bored. Molly in turn acts out dramatic moments from this or that undercover role and some of them really are quite funny. She does a wonderful impression of a certain disgraced media mogul. Mycroft decides to make an effort to tell her he enjoys time spent with her.

 

“Is Anthea even dating anyone?” Mycroft asks. He’s not sure he wants to know that much about his assistant’s personal life.

 

Molly spins her arugula around and thinks for a bit. “I think she’s concerned for you. About you. And dating.”

 

He steals a piece of burrata from her plate.

 

“It is sweet that she doesn’t want us to muck it up, it really is,” Molly says, but not before narrowing her eyes and swiping a bit of salmon. “Sweet, but it is just a _tad_ invasive.”

 

He looks up at that.

 

“For you, I mean,” she adds easily.

 

Before Mycroft can tell her she knows him so well, Molly waves it off.

 

“I’ll tell her to lay off,” Molly says.

 

They order some wine.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

To Molly’s credit, their one month anniversary comes and goes and Anthea is only slightly put out but doesn’t say anything when Mycroft’s schedules another Government Thing on the day.

 

Molly and Mycroft have progressed to dinner dates now, and things are still going very smoothly.

 

After a wonderful night at the ballet, Molly asks whether he would like to come up for some coffee, and he finds it not difficult at all to say yes.

 

But he’s scarcely stepped through the door when his phone goes off alerting to him a potential state emergency that he needs to take care of Right Now.

 

She’s already giving him a peck on the cheek as he tells her he needs to leave. He doesn’t promise to rush back, and her clear eyes and easy smile tell him she doesn’t mind.

 

The next day flowers show up at Molly’s flat, because Anthea insists they are customary for apologies. Mycroft doesn’t feel like he has anything to apologize for. He wasn’t the one who decided to plot a kidnapping.

 

He sends them anyway, because the yellow carnations caught his eye and they looked like they would be lovely in Molly’s kitchen, which he had a glimpse of the night before. He doesn’t add the apology note and instead sends them without a card at all.

 

_Molly:_

ATCH__233.JPG

 

_Molly: they’re gorgeous!!_

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

_Dear Molly,_

 

_I_

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Mycroft is in Munich when he passes by a little shop on a busy street with a display near the front showing lots of postcards. He thinks of getting one for Molly, then decides against it.

 

With Sherlock gone, Molly has resumed her role as an undercover specialist (“Just say _spy,_ Mycroft, it’s _fine_ ”) and the two of them often miss each other by just a day or two when they’re traveling.

 

It’s not an easy schedule, by any means, but neither of them has yet to bring it up.

 

On the flight back, composes a text that won’t send until the plane lands again in London.

 

_Me:  Your birthday is coming up. Would you like to spend it in Monaco?_

 

It’s 8 in the evening where Molly is, when she receives it.

 

_Molly: with you??? Or a job??_

 

_Me: With me. No work involved. For either of us._

 

His phone rings; it’s Molly.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Monaco is very nice, and Molly mentions she supposes this will make up for Christmas later this year, when she as to resume her role as Molly-from-the-morgue if only for a bit, and show her face at her old friends’ get-togethers, and mourn Sherlock a little.

 

Mycroft doesn’t bring up the fact that he rather hates Christmas, nor does he bring up his own plans. They both have to work on New Year’s Eve.

 

Then the new year swings around, and February comes fast approaching.

 

Anthea is eyeing him like a shark and keeps it up for about a week before she finally approaches him with purpose and asks what he’s getting Molly for their anniversary. She doesn’t make it sound like a question. Her eyes also keep going to his top left drawer disapprovingly. It’s where the unfinished letter sits.

 

Mycroft folds his hands and then answers honestly.

 

“I don’t know,” he says.

 

Anthea is so shocked she has to sit down. She _cannot_ . She is _so done._ She storms out to do all the _heavy lifting_ and _save this disaster from happening._

 

Mycroft picks up his phone.

 

_Me: We discussed Christmas and New Year, but not anniversaries. Thoughts?_

 

_Molly:_

 

ATCH__301.JPG

 

It’s a screenshot of a restaurant review.

 

_Molly: I’ve been wanting to get in for weeks!!_

 

_Molly: I want to try their tiramisu_

 

ATCH__302.JPG

 

_Molly: just LOOK at it_

 

ATCH__303.JPG

 

_Me: Done._

 

_Molly: !!!!!_

 

She sends some hearts and faces and cakes as well.

 

_Molly: anniversaries = awesome if we have the time to spend together. If not, we can take a raincheck on the date!_

 

_Molly: gifts ok too - let’s discuss first tho_

 

_Me: Yes, good._

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

_Dear Molly,_

 

_I wish to tell you_

 

The letter has not progressed beyond one line. There is barely even one line written. But Mycroft has not yet given up.

 

Mycroft takes the letter out roughly once a month, and has added on average one word every two months.

 

Then he gets notice that Sherlock has been made in Serbia.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

**Part 2: Sherlock**

 

Mycroft doesn’t see Molly in person for several weeks after that, being very busy and honestly a little tense about the whole rescue mission even in the aftermath.

 

On his way back with Sherlock safely in hand, he realizes the two of them have yet to define a very important point in their relationship. Namely, whether it exists or not when it comes to Molly’s secondary Molly Hooper identity.

 

_Me: I’m bringing Sherlock home. We should talk._

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Molly is pacing back and forth in her living room and thinking very loudly.

 

“We have to break it to him the right way or he’ll take it as a huge betrayal,” she starts.

 

“Right,” Mycroft says. Sherlock has so few friends that to find out that one of them only became his friend because his brother wanted to keep an eye on him would…

 

It would hurt him deeply.

 

Molly stops pacing abruptly and turns to face Mycroft, gesturing wildly.

 

“I mean, should we tell him about the whole—the whole spy thing? Is that useful?” she asks. Her hands are all over the place. “If we tell him that we started dating, I duno, _after,_ that’s technically true too isn’t it. It’s actually completely true.”

 

She starts pacing again.

 

“And I _am_ a licensed pathologist now. Legally,” she adds.

 

She stops suddenly, looking very intrigued.

 

“What?” Mycroft asks.

 

She turns to him, a slow smile spreading across her face.

 

“Sherlock thinks Molly Hooper has a crush on him,” she says. Then she giggle-snorts.

 

“You’re imagining his face,” Mycroft deduces. He’s trying hard not to do the same. The giggle-snort, not the imagining.

 

“Yes.” She giggle-snorts again, covering her face.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Sherlock has already worked out the fact that Mycroft is seeing someone but remains that he is suspended in disbelief. He says, multiple times, that he can’t decide whether he wants to meet her for proof, or never meet her because the image will scar him.

 

Mycroft just gives him a cryptic look and doesn’t say anything.

 

Later, he visits Molly at the morgue, and barely notices when she mentions off hand that she is seeing someone.

 

It’s not until they’re all at 221B Baker Street incidentally, that Sherlock does a double take.

 

He literally takes a step back, and then looks at Molly. Then at Mycroft. Then at Molly like he’s never seen her before. Then at Mycroft like he is an alien.

 

“Are…” He stops himself. Tries to start again. Can’t quite find the words.

 

Then Mrs. Hudson swans in and makes a cheeky jibe in passing about Molly’s attraction to intellectual men and how she would rather have passion any day, but not unkindly, and Sherlock wonders if this is all some sort of fever dream.

 

“You two,” he tries to start again. Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Molly makes a very Molly-from-the-morgue face. They had decided not to reveal the spy bit until a tad later.

 

“No,” he says, part awe, part disbelief, part disgust (it’s his brother), part morbid fascination. Mostly disbelief.

 

“How long?” he demands.

 

“Sherlock, manners,” Mycroft says reproachfully.

 

Sherlock sputters at him about _manners!_ and _how could you!_ and _what else have you been keeping from me  blah blah blah._ Then he throws a bit of a fit and John Watson waltzes in to find quite a commotion and now there are arms waving and lots of yelling and Molly trying to be placating and Mrs. Hudson saying who knows what until John Watson hollers at all of them to shut up.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

They’re all sitting, now, at a civil distance across from each other, and the room is all very, very tense.

 

“Um, we started dating a bit after, you know,” Molly says.

 

Neither Holmes brother says anything.

 

“Two years now,” Molly continues.

 

Still silence.

 

Molly takes Mycroft’s hand. He lets her, expression still blank. Then the dam breaks.

 

“You’re not good enough for her!” Sherlock blurts out at Mycroft.

 

Well.

 

They’re all actually rather surprised.

 

Sherlock seems to be trying to pull the words back in his mouth, trying to reverse time by sheer force of will, Molly’s eyes are very, very wide, and Mycroft curiously wonders whether he should be proud of the loyalty his brother is demonstrating for his friend, or put off that his younger sibling is being a huge embarrassment. He opts for a bit of both.

 

He’s not too offended, really, because a few years ago, he would have thought the same thing. A few years ago, he would have been too cold, too uncaring, to make Molly Hooper happy.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Sherlock side-eyes Mycroft with a great deal of malice.

 

“Have you introduced her to Mummy yet?” he asks.

 

Mycroft swallows a sigh.  “No. We haven’t….found time.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

 

“She’ll come home with us next month? For Christmas?” Sherlock asks. It sounds like more of a threat than a question.

 

Mycroft tells himself not to smack Sherlock over the head with the umbrella. If a fight broke out, actually, he would lose. It’s not worth it.

 

“Yes, I suppose so,” he answers instead.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

“You don’t know what he’s like,” Sherlock says, looking up from the microscope briefly, side-eyeing Molly.

 

Molly raises her eyebrows at that, and leans against the lab table in a way that’s a bit uncharacteristic of her.

 

“Oh?” she asks. Like she thinks it’s funny. Sherlock narrows his eyes a bit.

 

“Has he told you about his past relationships?” Sherlock asks.

 

She looks thoughtful at that.

 

“No…” Molly answers slowly. “Though...I haven’t really told him about mine either.”

 

Sherlock is at a loss when Molly leaves him abruptly, texting away as she goes out the door.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

_Dear Molly,_

 

Mycroft has started over, and still can’t quite think of how to start. But that’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Starting.

 

Once he gets the first line down, he’s sure he’ll have no problem composing the letter.

 

It should be simple, in theory. Anthea had told him to just write everything he loves about Molly. Sherlock accused him of not letting her into his life. He knows about himself, and he knows about Molly. He should have more than enough material.

 

It’s strange, he thinks, that he can deduce nearly everything about her, but can’t think of enough things to possibly put in a letter.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

They’re having dinner one night, at Mycroft’s flat, though it’s takeout, and Molly tells him about growing up and first kisses and boyfriends.

 

He learns then that deducing everything about a person is not the same as knowing them, not wholly, not like this.

 

He already knew the more scandalous entanglements from her file, but he didn’t have the image of her eyes lighting up as she talked about the way she discovered Mendelssohn’s love of Mozart, or the sheer clarity of how she looks when she tucks her hair back, admitting that she no longer feels guilt or shame over an incident that broke her heart in her early 20s. He knew she had studied neuroscience and behavioral psychology, but he didn’t have that specific hand gesture she made every time she talked about the amygdala (which he deduces is inherited from a professor she is fond of).

 

He files these away in a room in his mind that has gradually been growing more and more cluttered since they started having dinner two years back.

 

If this keeps up, he’ll have to add in a new wing.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

In return, he tries to tell her about college one morning, and she’s very patient as he fumbles through it. He tells her a bit about the Diogenes while she runs her thumb over his knuckles. He asks her to please rescue him from a long weekend in hell as he and Sherlock have been summoned to visit their family home for Christmas.

 

He’s rewarded with a truly stunning smile when she agrees.

It almost makes it bearable when they’re sitting at the family dinner table and Mummy says “ _Mikey!!”_ in a rather shrill way, as if his name is a synonym for _breaking your poor mother’s heart!_ and _have you no thought for your family??_  and _why don’t you ever call??._

 

Molly squeezes his hand under the table and charms the living hell out of Mrs. Holmes and transitions from Molly-from-the-morgue to the Molly that has become a fixture in his life so seamlessly that even Sherlock doesn’t get suspicious. If anything, an expression of something profound seems to settle across his face.

 

Later, before they all set out to go their separate ways, Sherlock comes up to them to say that they seem to be good for each other. He says this in a complete roundabout and almost offensive way. He seems to say this very warily, but he means well nonetheless. This is as much of an apology they will ever get from him, for his outburst.

 

Molly gives him a huge hug, and he even sort of returns it in his state of surreal shock.

 

Mycroft feels a bit proud.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

_Molly Hooper,_

 

_You have changed me in ways no one would have thought possible._

 

✒ ✒ ✒

**Part 3: Jim**

 

Moriarty is back with a vengeance.

 

Literally. His face is plastered over screens and billboard displays and he is saying that he’s out for revenge.

 

It first shows up while Molly and Mycroft are watching an old film in Mycroft’s flat—and there he is, there’s old Jim Moriarty.

 

“Well that’s unexpected,” Molly says.

 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. His mouth his pursed and his right hand is gripped tight. He’s going to have a busy week.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Moriarty comes to visit Mycroft personally a few days later, in his office, and it’s not actually unexpected.

 

He goes on and on about retirement, and coming out of retirement, and Sherlock, North Korea, and so on and so forth. In some ways, vacation seems to have done some good for his mental, and perhaps even physical, health. In other ways, perhaps, it has not been so good, because he seems a little stir-crazy and the sunburned nose only accentuates the crazy.

 

But he doesn’t have time to get to the point before the door opens and Molly is standing there, hair in a ponytail and lab coat over her cardigan. Mycroft has never seen her in her morgue uniform inside his office. Even he’s taken aback for a second.

 

Moriarty falls silent, and they stare at each other for a long beat.

 

Molly’s mouth is open as if she’s about to nervously ask if she’s interrupting something. Moriarty’s mouth falls open like he’s about to make a crude joke. Then he smiles warmly instead.

 

“Molly, Molly, Molly!” he says instead, arms out, approaching to hug her.

 

She sidesteps neatly out of the way and farther into the office while still facing him, arms behind her back.

 

He grins like a shark. “Well my _apologies_ if I didn’t think to visit,” he says, shoving his hands in his pocket. He thinks Molly is hurt. It’s a bit cute. “I went and saw Sherly and his pet, but I forgot about _yo~u_.”

 

“Poor little Molly,” he hums a bit. “Did you miss me?”

 

Then he looks her up and down lavisciously.

 

“Hi,” he says.

 

“Hi,” she says, and then shoots him point blank.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Moriarty wakes up in an empty cell, sore and dehydrated from the tranquilizer shot, and sees there is a little phone attached to the glass wall that’s not unlike that of a prison.

 

Molly is sitting on the other side, and waves at him. She’s got the phone in hand already.

 

Curious, thrilled, and a bit enraged, Moriarty stalks over to the wall and picks up the phone.

 

“Hello, Jim,” she chirps.

 

“Hello, _Molly,_ ” he returns.

 

“Yes, that is my real name,” she quips.

 

He takes a seat, gives her a fascinated once-over. She waits it out.

 

“So,” he says. “You and the Iceman, huh?”

 

She smiles sweetly.

 

He gives a scandalized gasp. “Not so frigid after all, eh? Do tell.”

 

“Do you think he _loves_ you then? Do you think he’s _capable_ of that?” Jim grins. “He hasn’t said as much, has he?”

 

She doesn’t answer, and instead taps on the glass twice, and points down. He follows her finger down. There’s a piece of paper and a pen.

 

“Missile coordinates, please,” she says.

 

He looks at the pen and paper, then back at her, then crosses and uncrosses his legs.

 

“You’re awfully….forward,” is what he finally settles on. “Oh, I see, is that how you landed the British Government then? You made the first move, didn’t you? I need _all_ the details.”

 

“Well, I might not as smart as Mycroft or as keen on the game as Sherlock, perhaps. Oh we might even be quite alike in that respect! I’ll resort to blunt force, if need be. Threats. Daylight robbery, was it? Shooting you point blank,” she says. “That sort of thing.”

 

Something almost like admiration crosses his expression.

 

“Fine,” he drawls. “I’ll give you a number for every—”

 

“Nope,” she says, cutting him off. “You have no leverage here, and if you won’t help we can figure it out by ourselves. You’re technically and legally already dead. You can hand over the numbers and we can turn you loose until you get bored enough and come running back again, or not. We can leave you to rot in here as well.”

 

Molly stands, gives a bit of a wave with her fingers, then says, “goodbye,” casually, before hanging up.

 

Jim is left with the phone in hand as she swiftly walks out.

 

He tries to call her bluff, but, indeed, no one else visits or initiates any contact for the next several days, as if he’s been forgotten.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Mycroft realizes that he is frowning _a lot_ as he watches the footage of Molly’s interrogation. He’s not sure if it should really be called an interrogation. An orientation of sorts, really. Welcome to your cell, we hope you have a nice stay.

 

And she’s utterly unaffected, not even concerned whether Moriarty will give in to the demands or choose to rot in isolation or whether he has some other plan up his sleeve. Mycroft knows this, because Molly is sitting on his sofa as he goes over the footage, and she is reading a magazine.

 

“I wonder what it’s like to be a food critic,” she muses out loud.

 

She is only occasionally a foodie, but during those phases, they end up eating at a lot of new restaurants, including raved-about hole-in-the-wall eateries started by 20-somethings who have a penchant for mixing exotic things they first encountered while studying abroad with nostalgic comfort foods from their childhood. Mycroft remembers an octopus pudding they shared that sounded quite disgusting but really wasn’t too bad.

 

But Molly’s competence throughout the interrogation isn’t what’s most affecting him.

 

No, it was just one line.

 

_He hasn’t said as much, has he?_

 

Mycroft’s eyes drift to the top left drawer, before he forces them away again. Molly doesn’t know there is a pitiful and unfinished letter in there, but it’s embarrassing nonetheless.

 

He _hasn’t_ said so. They haven’t gotten there yet. Maybe.

 

And it doesn’t feel like the kind of thing he can ask her about. By the way, Molly, at what stage is it appropriate to tell each other ‘I love you’, according to your Normal Dating rules?

 

Even he isn’t that tone deaf.

 

He steals a glimpse at her, and she notices, but continues to flip through her magazine to let him know she doesn’t mind.

 

Does Mycroft Holmes love Molly Hooper?

 

His first thought is that love was complicated to define, and depending on what they might come to agree upon, the answer might vary.

 

His second, and much louder thought, is: _yes._

 

Though it must not have come as quickly as it felt, because Molly looks up from her magazine and Mycroft realizes he must have been staring.

 

“Oh,” she starts, a bit awkward. “You’re not…”

 

Her eyes and mouth sort of communicate some mental gymnastics on her part before she tries again.

 

“Is it about the fact that Jim and I used to sort of date?” she tries again. “Because that was Jim-from-IT and Molly-from-the-morgue and that’s quite a bit different…”

 

Mycroft is suddenly _horrified_ because he hadn’t even _thought about that yet_ and he certainly can’t get the image out of his mind now. And judging by Molly’s face, his thoughts are completely evident in his expression.

 

“Oh, Mycroft,” she says with a sigh, part apologetic, part embarrassed, part on-the-verge-of-giggling.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

They’re sitting in a really terrible coffee shop just a stone’s throw away from St. Barts, and Mycroft can’t imagine why anyone would willingly partake in the muddy water served here.

 

Molly is in her morgue getup as she points around the place, explaining that many of the medical staff pop in for a quick coffee break regularly.

 

“This was our first date spot, you know, me and Jim-from-IT,” she explains. Mycroft doesn’t wince.

 

“Terrible isn’t it?” she adds with a grin. “The two of them are adorably awkward. Not even well suited for each other. Just. Equally awkward. Though I guess in a way they’re both caricatures of ourselves. A bit eager for love. Or attention, in his case. Not very normal, in a socially pleasing way.”

 

Mycroft blinks at her, and then at the horrible drinks in paper cups set between them.

 

“My point is,” Molly continues. “There is really nothing interesting worth saying about that experience. And I’m not going to let it be fodder for any of his mind games, and neither are you.”

 

She looks at him expectantly.

 

“We don’t have to actually drink these, do we?” he asks, pointing to the cups.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Molly had been fascinated to learn that Mycroft enjoyed old films, and actually had quite a substantial collection of them.

 

“They’re so campy, most of them!” she said with wonder, flipping through the titles tucked into the shelves beneath his television. “You are a man with a complex sense of humor, Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Movie night eventually becomes a regular thing, and they take turns picking out what to watch.

 

These are the most casual of their dates, and often the silliest. Which is why he never expected to say what he did in the middle of watching “One Night in the Tropics,” during the “Who’s on First?” bit.

 

“One base at a time, now!” Costello yells, and Molly is grinning.

 

“I think I’ll always find this funny,” she says.

 

“I love you,” Mycroft replies.

 

“What?” Molly asks.

 

“What’s on second,” Abbott says on screen.

 

Shit, Mycroft thinks.

 

Well. He never did expect that when he finally said it it would be to a laugh track. Molly looks taken aback only briefly, because then she looks incredibly pleased, and soft, like she understands that he has momentarily panicked but feels resolve now, and then she beams at him.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

They tell absolutely no one of this development, because, and Mycroft feels strongly about this,  some things are meant to be private.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

They somehow miss each other most of February, with Molly in Russia and Mycroft stuck in the London office.

 

_Me: Happy anniversary. I’ve written you a letter, but it’s in the post. I assume it should arrive by Valentine’s day (Anthea should get a kick out of that), at PO box by the hotel. The number is your birth month followed by your favorite symphony._

 

On the eve of February 14, a letter addressed to, and from, M.H. passes through a Moscow post checkpoint, and as it is shuffled through along with the rest of the mail, one gloved worker pockets it and momentarily runs it through a miniature x-ray scanner.

 

The letter is returned to the stack without incident only minutes later.

 

✒ ✒ ✒

 

Somewhere by a pool the next morning, one Jim Moriarty is lounging on a reclining chair, sunglasses on, sunblock slathered, opaque, over his nose, as a stereotypical butler-type approaches with a folded piece of paper on a silver tray.

 

“Letter for you, sir,” he said, and Moriarty lazily holds out his hand for the paper.

 

He pushed the glasses down a bit and winces internally as sunblock gets all up in the nosepads of the glasses, and then flips the folded piece of paper open. It is a copy of the love letter Mycroft has finally finished to Molly, and it’s really very sweet, if partially redacted.

 

It reads:

 

_Dear Molly,_

 

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_All my love,_

_MH_

  


**Author's Note:**

> I tried writing a cute Mycroft backstory companion piece and got derailed by plot? only kinda


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